


So Much More

by Anonymous_Introvert78



Series: NCT Hurt/Comfort [5]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Blackmail, Coercion, Dong Si Cheng | WinWin-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Evil Manager, Here we go, Hurt Dong Si Cheng | WinWin, LET'S GET IT, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Not as graphic as it sounds, Nude Modeling, Sad Dong Si Cheng | WinWin, no actual non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-07 21:56:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Introvert78/pseuds/Anonymous_Introvert78
Summary: "When you signed that contract, you were consenting to anything we asked of you. Now get it into your thick little head. You are not a singer. You're a dancer. Your body and your face are all you're good for. Now shut the fuck up and do as you're told."





	1. Dong Sicheng

I'm writing a twenty-one part (yes, twenty-one part) series! One story for each member because I'm overly ambitious and honestly? I just wanted to see if it could be done.

I just need to finish tweaking the last chapter before I post this so please be patient for a few days.

**TRIGGER WARNING!!!!!**

This fic contains potentially triggering content such as emotional abuse, sexual coercion, forced nudity and non-consensual touching. There is no actual assault per say and nothing is graphic but I've added the non-con tag just to be on the safe side so if there's a chance that this will offend or upset you then I urge to you to consider whether or not this fic will be suitable for you. 


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation:  
"Beautiful Tomorrow" by Park Hyo Shin

“Sicheng-ge!”

A slipper hit him in the face, completely out of the blue, and he ripped off his headphones with a reproachful glare schooling his expression as he turned his head towards where Yangyang was perched on the edge of his bed.

“What was that for?”

“Your phone’s ringing.”

“Oh.”

He moved his laptop aside and grabbed his phone from the table, accepting the call and pressing the device to his ear, “Hello?”

“Sicheng!” his manager called from the other end of the line, tone jovial and almost excited, and Sicheng immediately felt his heart start to speed up. “I’ve got good news for you, kid.”

Yangyang was watching him, eyebrows raised expectantly as he seemed to realise something big was happening. And Sicheng could barely breathe. It felt like forever since he’d had any kind of individual publicity.

“What is it?” he whispered, fingernails digging into his jeans.

“You know that modelling job we recommended you for?”

Oh, God. Oh, God! This was it. This was what all his hard work had been leading up to. A photoshoot would finally put him on the map as an important member of WayV, not just the dejected Chinese kid they’d kicked out of NCT 127. He needed this.

“Did I get it?”

“You sure did.”

Sicheng felt his eyes bulging out of his head as he threw himself backwards onto the bed and clenched his lips together in his desperation to remain silent even though he was kicking his legs and flopping about like a fish out of water.

Yangyang must have thought he’d gone crazy.

“The first shoot’s tomorrow morning. I’ve cleared your schedule so I want you ready to go by 8am, okay?”

“Yes!” he practically shouted as he sat back up, bouncing up and down on the mattress as he grinned at Yangyang’s raised eyebrows and amused smirk. “Yes, Manager-ge! I’ll be ready. I swear. Thank you … Thank you so much.”

The call ended and finally he could let out that squeal of joy, leaping up from the bed and throwing himself on top of his very surprised maknae. He knocked them both to the floor, arms wrapped around the kid’s neck as a hysterical cackle of delight bubbled from his mouth.

“What’s going on?” Yangyang grunted from beneath him, voice slightly constricted but lips still stretched wide in a smile. “Who was that?”

“Sorry,” Sicheng giggled, rolling to the side and allowing his friend to prop himself up again. “Just got a little excited.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because …” he paused for dramatic effect, cheeks starting to hurt from grinning so wide. “I’ve got the modelling job at APM Plenty!”

His shoulders bunched up as the news finally set in and he waited for Yangyang’s response. There was a split second where neither of them said anything, the kid just staring with bulbous eyes, and then he let out a screech that would have sent dogs crazy.

“Guys!” he hollered, scrambling up off the floor and sprinting out into the hallway as Sicheng followed, practically vibrating with happiness. “Guys, get down here! Get down here right now! Sicheng-ge’s going to be a model!”

Doors opened, both upstairs and down, and one by one, confused faces started appearing at the top of the steps.

“What?” Kun called from the kitchen, poking his head out the door, accompanied by a plume of steam from whatever he was cooking.

“I got the job!” Sicheng shouted, clutching his fists to his chest and bobbing on the balls of his feet. “The APM Plenty Agency! Manager-ge just called and I start tomorrow!”

There was a collective cry of congratulations just seconds before he was engulfed in hugs and hair-ruffles and slaps on the back and even a kiss on the cheek from Ten that he couldn’t bring himself to push away.

He had never been happier.

Too long he’d stood in the back, just the dancer that never spoke. Too long he’d had his parts cut out of music videos and his image stomped on as interviewers walked straight past him to talk to Taeyong or Mark, and now Yukhei or Ten.

Too long he’d trained at that company, pouring over Korean dictionaries every chance he got, cringing as managers screamed in a language he didn’t understand, only to be shunned and ignored and pushed aside when he finally got the chance to debut.

Too long he’d felt like he wasn’t important. Like he didn’t matter.

Too long. But not anymore.

“Okay! Okay!” he laughed, ducking out of the group embrace the others had formulated around him and raising his hands in surrender. “Let me breathe, let me breathe!”

“I’m so proud of you,” Kun grinned, taking his face in his hands and giving him the smallest of shakes. “You deserve this. You really do.”

Sicheng felt like crying, and that would have been embarrassing.

“Thanks, guys,” he said instead, raking his fingers through his hair. “But I should probably go to bed. I don’t want to have bags under my eyes tomorrow morning.”

The maknaes were chanting his name as he made his way up the stairs and he pumped his fist in the air to fuel their supportive whoops and cheers … and he loved them. More than anything, he loved them.

They knew how badly he suffered even if he never talked about it. They knew how insecure he felt about his place in NCT, whether or not he was truly no longer a member of 127, and if he was ever going to be seen as more than just the backup dancer who never opened his mouth.

And they tried. They tried to make him feel included. They tried to turn the spotlight on him whenever they could but everybody knew that Yukhei was the centre for a reason. That Kun was the leader for a reason. That Ten was the main dancer for a reason. There really was nothing they could do to fix that gaping hole inside of him.

But as he stood in front of the mirror, lathering moisturiser over his skin to make it as smooth as humanly possible, he looked at his reflection and thought, just for a moment, that maybe he was worth more than that company had given him credit for. And he was happy.

He should have known that the world didn’t work that way.

\-----------------------

Kun cooked a special breakfast the next morning. Seaweed soup: his ultimate favourite, usually only reserved for birthdays. Hendery took it upon himself to brush his hair as he sat at the kitchen table, combing each and every tangle from the smooth mop of glossy brown, and Yukhei kept giving him tips about which side to display on camera, which way to face, which position to hold for the longest.

He’d never felt more excited in his life.

The manager picked him up, indicating his arrival by the blasting of the horn from the road, and Kun insisted on wrapping his little brother in one final, bone-crushing hug before waving him off towards the biggest achievement of his career.

“This isn’t going to be like those cover shoots you’ve done with the others,” his manager told him as they pulled up in front of the agency building, turning around in his seat so he could face the artist in the back. “It’s going to be much more demanding, both physically and emotionally. And they can drop you at any moment if they feel like it’s not working so you have got to be perfect. Do you understand me?”

Sicheng nodded wordlessly, swallowing the phlegm that had started to build up in the back of his throat at the thought of being fired on his first day because he was too nervous or too stiff or took too long to get into it.

And suddenly, he didn’t feel nearly as excited anymore.

“And models don’t talk,” the manager added, opening the door so Sicheng could get out onto the curb. “They don’t ask questions. They don’t smile unless they’re told to. They suck their stomachs in and they puff their abs out and they look pretty for the camera. This is your big break, Sicheng.”

He knew that. He also knew his manager wasn’t telling him that if he screwed this up then he could wave goodbye to the possibility of any individual schedules in the future.

“Don’t make me regret choosing you for this over Yukhei.”

He gulped.

“Yes, sir.”

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, his elbow was grabbed – a little too roughly – by a woman with a thin smile that didn’t come even close to reaching her eyes, and he found himself being shepherded into the dressing room.

The costume racks were lined with sequins and lace and all sorts of other light, flowy, pastel-coloured clothing, and a couple of models – both female – were already being handed the first hanger they were going to be displaying for the camera.

Sicheng opened his mouth to introduce himself but the stylist waved her hands in dismissal, pushing him in front of a mirror and running her hands over his shoulders to ascertain which size he’d be requiring.

It wasn’t what he would call a comfortable experience but Yukhei had warned him about this: the hectic speed with which the staff would toss him around, throwing whatever clothes they felt like onto his body only to rip them off a second later. He’d been prepared to feel like a mannequin being dressed up by a spoilt little girl who was throwing a tea party.

And then he stepped in front of the camera and he didn’t quite know what happened but suddenly, he was living the dream. The flashes didn’t blind him like he thought they would. The scores and scores of scrutinising eyes didn’t put him off like he thought they would. The poses came naturally, fluid and flawless, and the cameraman was loving it almost as much as Sicheng himself.

“Perfect!” he was calling out, dropping to one knee and angling his body in an attempt to get another perspective of Sicheng’s ripped skinny jeans and tight-fitting sleeveless shirt. “Keep your expression neutral. That’s it! Try another one! Oh, God, you’re killing me, kid!”

Never had his ego been boosted this high. He felt like he was flying, soaring over the heads of every single person who’d ever told him he was just a silhouette in the background, overshadowed by his much better-looking bandmates.

It wasn’t arrogance, he told himself. He hated arrogance. No. This was confidence. This was actually believing that he was so much more than anyone had ever let him be before. So much more.

He was practically buzzing with excitement when the stylist led him back to the dressing room and started preparing his next outfit, rifling through the hangers on the wrack as he carefully peeled off his current clothing and folded them neatly onto the back of a chair.

“Here you go,” she said shortly, holding out his planned attire before a girl came rushing over and pulled her off for something else that was apparently much more important.

Sicheng unsheathed the clothes from their plastic sleeve, letting them fall onto the dressing table in front of him.

And he stared.

He picked up the thin, practically transparent fabric, and held it up in front of his face, jaw dropping to the ground because there was barely anything there.

He checked the packaging for anything that had gone unnoticed but there was nothing. He scanned the clothing wrack, wondering if the rest of his costume had been put on another hanger by mistake. But there was no attire that matched its colour.

This, whatever it was that he was holding in his hands right now, was all he had.

The shirt – if he could even call it that – had no buttons. It would expose the entirety of his chest, and it was even cropped at the sides, making it nothing more than a mini waistcoat made of wafer-thin and completely see-through netting. And the shorts wouldn’t have made it half way down his thigh.

“Excuse me?” he called out as the stylist returned to the room, glaring down at the clipboard in her hands like it had wronged her in the worst possible way. “Is … Is this what I have to wear?”

“Yes,” she snapped irritably after giving him the once over. “Now get changed quickly. You’re up next and we don’t have time to wait for you.”

She was gone before he had time to tell her just how uncomfortable he felt at even the mere thought of wearing this in front of his closest friends, let alone an entire camera crew and then half of China who’d read the magazine he would appear in.

Despite the dread and disgust blossoming in his gut, he slithered into the clothes and felt goosebumps pricking his skin at the sight of just how big a portion of his body was still bare.

They couldn’t expect him to do this, could they? He hadn’t consented to being practically naked in front of his entire country. They couldn’t force him. He could say no. He should say no. That was the right thing to do. That’s what Kun would tell him to do.

“How you doing, kid?”

He looked up, arms instinctively wrapping protectively around his exposed abdomen, as his manager walked into the room with an impressed expression on his face.

“Manager-ge …” Sicheng whispered, edging closer so they could speak without anyone overhearing. “I can’t do this. I … I’m barely wearing anything. I didn’t know I’d be doing this and I just don’t feel comfortable with …”

“Sicheng,” his manager interrupted him, any hint of a smirk on his face disappearing to be replaced with irritation. “Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get you this job? And now you want to quit as soon as they ask you to show a bit of skin?”

Well … yes, was the answer. He didn’t want this. He never would.

“This is the modelling industry, kid, and it’s the first and – if you don’t grow a pair – only job you’re ever going to be offered if you don’t suck this up and get out there. Are you really going to play the diva card? Is that who you are now? You going to throw a hissy fit because you’re too shy to go shirtless when I worked so fucking hard to get you hired at this place?”

The guilt was gnawing at Sicheng’s gut because he knew how huge of an opportunity this was. He felt like he’d been waiting a lifetime to get that phone call and now he was tossing it all aside on his very first day. But he didn’t like this. At all.

“I don’t feel comfortable,” he repeated under his breath, lowering his gaze shamefully and tightening the grip he had around his own body. “I don’t want to do this if I don’t feel comfortable.”

The slap to his cheek was a familiar occurrence for him. Managers hit their artists. They dealt with it, they moved on, they didn’t make the same mistake again. It was an effective training technique to whip them into shape, and yet it still hurt just as badly every time he felt the sting of a flat palm against his skin.

“So you’re throwing in the towel because you’re too cowardly to stand in front of a couple of cameras without wearing a turtleneck?” his assailant growled at him as he resolutely kept his gaze on the floor. He knew better than to talk back at a moment like this if he didn’t want something more than a slap. “Yukhei’s done this. Ten’s done this. Taeyong, Jaehyun and Johnny back in Korea have all done this. Are you finally admitting that they’re braver than you?”

Sicheng stayed silent, furiously blinking back his tears. He was not going to cry right now. He had too much pride. To stand here and blub like a baby when he was already wearing next to nothing would be singularly the most humiliating thing that would ever happen to him.

“When you signed that contract, you were consenting to anything we asked of you. Now get it into your thick little head. You’re not a singer. You’re a dancer. Your body and your face are all you’re good for. Now shut the fuck up and do as you’re told.”

A hand planted itself in the small of his back and pushed him towards the door, an action that gave him no other option but to obey without question.

Because that man was right. He wasn’t a singer. He never had been. And if he walked out of this right now then he would be breaching that contract he’d signed when he’d first entered the company all those years ago, just a kid who’d had no idea what he’d be getting himself into.

His hands were tied.

He had no other choice.

After all … His body was all he was good for. 


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation:  
"Airplane" by iKON

“Thank you,” Sicheng mumbled, practically tumbling out of the car almost before it had even stopped moving.

He couldn’t stand to sit there with his manager a second longer than was absolutely necessary. He’d received another slap at the end of the photoshoot for the tears he hadn’t been able to stop from spilling but he’d survived. Just.

And he would survive longer. However much longer he needed. Because he had to keep this job. He had to show everybody that he wasn’t a coward.

That he wasn’t afraid of displaying his body like his bandmates were.

That he wasn’t just some snotty-nosed idol who quit whenever things got the slightest bit difficult for him.

But he felt sick. He felt violated and cornered and ashamed and he wanted nothing more than to curl up under his bed covers and never come out again, but the moment he stepped through his front door, he could smell the heavenly scent of Kun’s cooking wafting through from the kitchen.

They’d been waiting for him to come home.

“Hey!” chimed a jovial shout from the end of the hallway as Hendery came pacing towards him, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Look who’s here! It’s the future of China’s modelling agencies!”

Sicheng cringed, hunching his shoulders as he kicked off his shoes, wishing that Hendery would just leave him be or else he might start crying again and he’d already had enough humiliation for one day. But he should have suspected that his supportive, loving, caring members would be more than excited to shower him with praise he didn’t want.

“How was it, ge?” Yukhei called, his heavy footfalls clattering down the stairs as he descended and Sicheng glanced up just in time to see his big, insufferably good-looking smile turning the corner. “Was it headshots or full body?”

Sicheng didn’t have time to answer before Kun was yelling from the kitchen, the loud sizzling of grilled meat almost drowning out his words, “Get in here! Dinner’s almost ready and I want to hear about it, too!”

Hendery scuttled forwards, grabbing Sicheng’s hand and tugging him towards the door at the end of the hall despite the older boy’s protests and attempts to pull away.

“Please,” he whined, trying to keep his head low and shielded by his hood so that they wouldn’t be able to see the redness to his eyes. “I’m really tired and I just want to go to bed.”

“Oh, come on!” Ten cried and Sicheng looked up to see him, Xiaojun and Yangyang setting the table for the fantastically lavish meal Kun was preparing at the stove. “You can’t do the most amazing thing any of us have ever accomplished and then keep your mouth shut about it.”

Sicheng wrenched his hand from Hendery’s grip, squeezing his eyes shut and frantically battling the urge to burst into tears. Hearing Ten call the horrors he’d just gone through ‘amazing’ was churning his stomach so unpleasantly that he was convinced he was about to throw up.

He’d allowed them to strip him practically naked and photograph him and he hadn’t fought back because he was too weak to admit that he was just that: weak. 

He had to do the same thing all over again tomorrow and then would come the worst part: the moment when the magazine came out.

And yet he couldn’t quit. Because he wasn’t brave enough. And because he needed this. He needed the publicity. He needed to be more than just another face in the back. He only wished he could have gained the same thing through different methods.

“Food’s ready!” Kun cheered, shovelling the last portion onto a plate which he handed to Yukhei, gesturing for the boy to valet it over to the table. And as he turned to join them, he gave Sicheng’s shoulder a strong squeeze. “So proud of you.”

He tried to pull him towards the gathering around the wooden structure as hands reached over various steaming dishes to procure what they wanted and it was all too much at once and Sicheng didn’t know when but somehow he'd started crying.

“Cheng?” Kun asked, the happiness in his tone dissipating into concern and everybody glanced up to see what was going on.

Everybody was staring at him. Just like they had been in that studio. Everybody was staring and suddenly he was convinced that he was back in one of those outfits and he had to look down at his body just to prove to himself that he wasn’t and his chest was tight and everybody was still staring at him.

“Cheng, what’s wrong?” Kun took a step towards him, arms outstretched for a hug, but Sicheng pushed him away with a barely-stifled sob. “Cheng?”

“Leave me alone!”

And now he was throwing a tantrum. Just like his manager had said he would. Just like a toddler throwing his toys out of the pram. Just like a petulant child.

“Sicheng!” somebody yelled after him but he was already taking the stairs two at a time, vision blurry through the sheer volume of the tears in his eyes.

He couldn’t be there any longer. He couldn’t listen to them praise him and compliment him and ask him to tell them all about the way he’d used his body for money just because he didn’t want to admit that he wasn’t as brave as Yukhei or Taeyong.

If they knew, they would go crazy. They would tell him to quit. They would scream at their manager. They would get him in all sorts of trouble, ruining his reputation with the company, putting his entire career in jeopardy even if they thought they were helping him.

Or they might just turn their backs, finally realising that the member they’d cherished all these years was just a glorified camboy.

He burst into his bedroom with tears streaming down his cheeks and his breathing bordering on hyperventilation as he clutched his chest with both hands fisted in the material of his hoodie and tried to calm himself down.

He had to calm down. He was having a panic attack like a pathetic little child and he would have to go through his entire skincare routine at least three times so the swelling around his eyes wouldn’t be so visible when he showed up for the shoot tomorrow.

Such was the violence of his downward spiral that he didn’t even hear the knock on the door before it was opened and Kun stood on the threshold, his expression folded into one of compassionate kindness. And Sicheng couldn’t stand it.

“Go away!” he practically screamed, turning away to try and hide his face even though he knew it was useless. “I don’t want to talk to you!”

“Sicheng, what happened?” He could hear Kun approaching behind him and eyed the window, wondering if it would be better just to jump. “Was it something at the photoshoot? Did somebody say or do something to you?”

No. It was all him. All his fault. He’d let it happen and he was going to keep letting it happen and now he couldn’t even explain to himself why he wasn’t putting an end to it and everything was too much to bear.

“Tell me, Sicheng. I can …”

“Get out!” Sicheng shrieked, so loudly that he swore something tore in the back of his throat as he seized a pillow and hurled it at Kun with as much force as possible.

The leader caught the missile, eyebrows furrowed in an infuriating cocktail of concern and hurt. He clearly knew that something was terribly wrong seeing as how Sicheng had never – _never _– gotten violent, even though it was just a pillow, but it would have been obvious to anyone that the rejection had offended him.

“I’m going to be right downstairs,” he said coolly, setting the pillow down and backing out of the room, Sicheng watching him go with snot streaming from his nose and tears staining the sleeves of his hoodie. “Anytime you want to chat, all you have to do is come and find me, okay, Sicheng? You’re not on your own.”

He closed the door behind him and Sicheng sank to his knees, grabbing the pillow and using it to muffle the scream that ripped from the depths of his chest.

Breathing in the scent of the thick cotton seemed to administer some kind of drug because the next thing he knew, he was lying on his side with his cheek digging into the carpet and his knees drawn up to his chest, softly sobbing into his hands. 

He had no idea how long he lay there and cried. It could have been hours or it could have been mere minutes, but when he finally opened his eyes again, he realised he’d fallen asleep and somebody had come into his room to layer a blanket on top of him and leave a plate of food on the bedside table.

He looked at it, the perfectly roasted vegetables and the sweet-smelling sauce, and, of course, he immediately recognised it as his favourite. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Kun was always so predictable.

Sicheng shuffled forwards, rubbing at his sore eyes – knowing they would be red and swollen beyond imagination but too forlorn to care – and took the bowl from the table, crossing his legs and settling the still-slightly-warm china in his lap.

It looked amazing. It smelt even better. But he couldn’t eat it.

He was a model now. And models didn’t eat foods piled sky high with calories and saturated fats. Models ate salads and grapes and celery sticks. Particularly semi-nude models like him. The models who had to show 70% of their bare bodies.

Each mouthful he ate would turn into flab and the cameras tomorrow morning would capture every ounce of that flab and then he would be fired. Humiliated and fired and just as useless as everyone had ever told him he was.

So he put the bowl back on the table and turned away, cracking his back before snaking a hand inside his hoodie in search for his phone.

All his joints felt stiff, just like they always did after a person cried themselves to sleep, and he would have to find some miracle cream to put on his face if he didn’t want to put the makeup artist through a mental breakdown.

Finally succeeding in retrieving his device, he winced at the sudden brightness before his eyes could adjust and then he registered just how many text messages had flooded his inbox in that short time period where he’d been completely unconscious.

Each of his members had sent him something about how much they loved him and how they would be there for him whenever he was ready to talk and he couldn’t bare to respond. Couldn’t bare to tell them that he would never confide in them about what he was putting himself through. Couldn’t bare to tell them that the most experienced member of their team was just a disgrace.

And then the phone started ringing and as soon as Yuta’s smiling face popped up on the screen along with his contact information, Sicheng could no longer resist the frantic calls of his stomach.

He leapt up, dashing to the bathroom and flinging himself on his knees in front of the toilet, gripping the porcelain bowl and lurching forwards as his gag reflex threatened to bring up every single morsel he’d ever eaten in his life.

But nothing came out and he was just left there to hunch pathetically on the bathroom floor, choking through dry heaves with further tears sparking in his eyes. He hadn’t realised he’d even had enough moisture left in him to cry.

What would Yuta think of him right now? Would he still try to kiss and cuddle him every chance he got? Would he still call him his favourite person and practically growl at anybody else who touched him?

Would he still believe him to be the most innocent person who had ever walked this earth once he found out his perfect little Winwin had been posing, half-naked, in front of a camera to make money?

Sicheng didn’t think so. His life was as good as over already.

His body finally seemed to decide that enough was enough as the cramps in his abdomen uncurled and his stomach relaxed back into a blob of muscle tissue but it was still another few minutes before he was ready to stand up and return to his bedroom.

Yuta had called him twice more before he’d apparently given up, leaving a single voice message in his inbox, and Sicheng had to pull every ounce of courage together before he brought the phone to his ear and listened to it.

He wondered if Yuta knew already with that weird soulmate-connection they seemed to have always shared. He wondered if he had called to tell him to quit or to tell him that he was flying to China to kick his ass for being such a goddamn pushover.

But it was none of those things.

_“Hey, Sichengie! It’s your favourite hyung, Yuta! I really wanted to catch you before you went to sleep but I think I got the time zone differences mixed up again because you’re not answering me and I know you’d only ever do that if you were unconscious. You’d never ignore me, would you? _

_Anyway … Yukhei contacted me earlier today and told me that you’d got a modelling job with APM Plenty and I was kind of busy with promotion stuff so I didn’t have a chance to call but I just really wanted to say that I’m so pleased for you, Sicheng. _

_I know you’re so much happier in China. I see it in the interviews and reality shows. You’re so much more like yourself than when you were with us. Maybe it’s the language barrier or maybe it’s something else, I don’t really know, but it makes me so happy to see you happy, Cheng. _

_And you deserve this. You’ve worked so hard for so long and you never get any credit for how amazing you are so I just want to tell you to grab hold of this opportunity with both hands and don’t ever let go. Don’t let anybody tell you you’re not good enough for it because you are, Sicheng. You most definitely are. _

_The voicemail’s going to cut me off in a minute and I still have a lot more to say so I’d appreciate it if you could give me a call when you get this. If you still have time for your loser friends now that you’re a model, of course. Remember that hyung loves ---_

And now Sicheng was in tears all over again when he’d only just managed to stop crying the first time. Hearing Yuta say those things about seizing the opportunity that he had and never letting go but also about how amazing he was and how much he deserved the honour of a modelling contract was all kinds of confusing.

He wanted this job, but not for any of the right reasons.

He wanted it because it would make the company happy. It would bring in the money, build his reputation with other modelling agencies that may bring in further job opportunities. It would get his manager off his back. It would maybe save Yukhei or one of the others from having to go through the same thing.

The thought brought a shiver down his spine. What if they had chosen Yukhei after all? Would he have the guts to speak up? Or would it even affect him at all? He looked like a God already and he certainly wasn’t afraid of showing his body. Yukhei would probably be fine with all of … that.

It was only then that Sicheng realised he was kicking up a huge fuss over nothing. If other models did this then so could he. It didn’t matter if he hated it because that was just immature. And stupid. And weak.

That’s all he’d ever been: weak.

He would do this shoot. And the next one and the one after that. He would build himself up, show the world that he was strong. That he was a grown up, not just a child to be protected and mollycoddled. It would be pure torture for God knows how long but he would do it.

He would … He would do it … He would … do it.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation:  
"Playdate" by Exo-CBX
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING!!!  
This chapter contains potentially triggering content such as sexual assault and non-consensual touching. Please be wary while reading.

He left the house at 5am, hours before any of the others even thought about rising from their respective slumbers, and sat on the curb until 7 before he finally called his manager to come and pick him up.

It was just easier that way. He would avoid the questions and the awkward stares and the kiddie-gloved touches, and if he had to roll out of bed at an ungodly hour of the morning in order to achieve that then so be it.

All he had to do was get through the day. Make his manager happy. Get the paycheque. Come home and convince his members that everything was alright. That the previous night had been nothing but a breakdown brought on by exhaustion and stress.

All he had to do was get through the day.

“Good morning! Sicheng, isn’t it?” the pretty young woman practically sang as she gushed towards him the moment he stepped through the door, grabbing hold of his arm and tugging him in the direction of the dressing room. “I’ve heard a lot about you and I’m a fan of WayV myself if I were to be totally honest.”

Sicheng just nodded, trying to force a smile that he intended to be warm and grateful but instead turned cold and stiff.

This woman was ridiculously enthusiastic, such a dramatic contrast to the stern, thin-lipped lady from the previous day, and Sicheng couldn’t think of anything worse than a fan of his – somebody who had seen him on stage, behind stage, on camera, behind the camera – being present at a photoshoot where he was forced to remove the majority of his clothes.

Then he reminded himself that once this magazine came out, that’s all his fans would see, and he swallowed his own tongue.

“Oh my God,” the stylist – he assumed she was a stylist – crooned as she pulled him underneath the dressing room lights to illuminate his weary face. “You’re twice as gorgeous in real life as you are on screen.”

“Thank you,” Sicheng replied robotically, turning to face the mirror and steeling himself for the things he was about to do.

Right now, he was a model. Not a singer. Not a scared little kid. A model. And models got the job done, no matter what the cost, because, at the end of the day, their bodies and their faces were all they were good for.

“I have to tell you,” the girl babbled as she whizzed around him, gathering various hangers from clothing wracks and holding them up against his body so she could get a feel for what would fit him. “When I heard that you were doing this particular shoot, I was kind of shocked. I didn’t think you’d be up for something so … bold.”

He wasn’t. That was the problem.

“But your body’s stunning,” she continued, utterly oblivious to his internal discomfort. “So I completely understand that you feel confident enough to display it like this.”

Sicheng shivered. He told himself it was because of the breeze that seemed to attack his body when she ordered him to lift his arms so she could pull his shirt off, but it would have been clear to anyone who could read his thoughts that the real reason behind his sudden muscle spasm was this woman’s insinuation that he would willingly go semi-nude in front of a camera just to feed his ego. 

“So, Sicheng …” God, why couldn’t she shut up? “I was wondering if you could give me Yangyang’s number? He’s my absolute favourite, see, and I would just love nothing more than to have a conversation with him. I feel like we’d get on really well, you know? And …”

She kept on talking, but Sicheng tuned her out, focusing instead on slithering his body into the thin whispery fabric that barely covered what needed to be covered. The outfits were even more revealing this time round, but he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pushed down his growing insecurity.

The stylist was still regurgitating proof of her love for Yangyang and there was absolutely no way Sicheng was letting her – with her wandering hands and her intrusive friendliness – within twenty feet of his little brother but he couldn’t get a word in edgewise to tell her to back off.

He was almost grateful when the production assistant poked her head around the door and called him to the site of the shoot because it meant that he got to get away from that awfully irritating, frankly slightly creepy, woman and the way she kept running her hands over his body for no necessary reason other than to feel his muscles beneath her fingertips.

He was _almost _grateful.

\-----------------

“Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. It’s alright.”

“It’s not!” Sicheng choked back as he wretched and heaved over the trash can in the corner of the room. “Nothing about this is alright!”

“I know,” came the sigh from behind him, the gentle fingers rubbing soothing circles in between his shoulder blades. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”

His throat was raw, his eyes were teary, his nose was streaming, his lips were puffy and his stomach was curling and uncurling in horrific knots of cramping muscles. And yet his body insisted on hacking up every last drop of bile left inside him, too disgusted by what he was doing to it to allow him to keep any calories for himself.

He hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day and he was starving, fingers tingling with hypoglycaemic needles, but models were skinny and the agency didn’t offer them any food while they worked.

“Are you done?”

“Yeah,” he rasped with a voice that sounded like metal grating against metal. “I think so.”

He took her hand and she helped him to his feet, straightening the robe he had wrapped around his body in an attempt to hide the indecency with which the staff had forced him to dress. Or not dress as was more specific.

They’d told him to take everything off. Everything. And he’d done it. Because that’s who he was now.

“Do you want water?” Wooseung asked him, already holding out a bottle at the ready and he accepted at once, chugging so clumsily that he could feel the liquid trickling down his chin. “Steady. Or it’ll all come back up again.”

Sicheng lowered the bottle and swiped at the tears on his face with the back of his hand. The only good thing about this entire ordeal was Wooseung. The _only _good thing.

She was a model, too, sucked in by a contract she’d signed when she was barely legal and now trapped forever in an agency which forced her to pose half-naked – sometimes fully naked – for a camera which would spread those images around the world, regardless of how she hated it.

And the moment Sicheng had introduced himself to her, she’d taken him against her chest and promised to do everything she could to make this hellish experience as bearable as possible.

“They said you had to be back in half an hour,” she murmured gently, taking his elbow and guiding him to a nearby chair. “You’ve only got a few minutes left.”

She knelt in front of him, swiping a make-up palette off the dressing table and beginning to apply the necessary powder to his face in order to cover up the remnants of his vomiting episode.

“It’s only my second day,” he whispered. “And I already feel like killing myself.”

Wooseung smirked bitterly, “Been there.”

“I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

She stopped her administrations and instead lowered her hands to rest them against his knees, smoothing her fingers over the silky material of the robe he wore as she looked up into his sunken cheeks and smiled in sympathy.

“You have to,” she told him, gentle and yet firm at the same time. “You signed with SM. That means you’re with SM until either you file a lawsuit or you die. Whatever they tell you to do, you have to do it or they will make your life a living hell.”

“It’s already a living hell.”

“And it’ll get much worse.”

Another wave of tears washed over his face, smudging the little makeup Wooseung had managed to apply, but her expression held no anger. No irritation. Only heartbreak.

“How …” he breathed, bringing a hand up to press against his tightening chest. “…have you done this for five years?”

He couldn’t even begin to fathom her endurance. Two days in and he was already throwing his guts up into the dressing room trash can. Two days in and he already felt like he was worth less than the dirt on the bottom of his shoe. Two days in and he’d already accepted that his body was all he was good for.

“Every day,” Wooseung started, taking both his hands in her own and squeezing tightly. “I tell myself that I did not choose this. That I am more than my face or my skin or my body. That I deserve more. That I was tricked into this life and that makes it their fault and not mine. I remind myself that this is my job and it’s who I am during the day but that, when I go home to my little boy and I see him smiling even though he has no father and no siblings to play with, I am his mother first and foremost. He is what I’m worth. Find something that defines you, Sicheng, and use it to get through this.”

Sicheng knew he was a blubbering mess but, in this moment, he didn’t really care. His contract with this modelling company would end along with the shoot, but Wooseung’s would not. It wasn’t fair. She would never be free, and her son would never get the time with his mother that he deserved.

But before he could say anything, the door burst open and the touchy stylist from earlier came flouncing into the room, her beady eyes scanning the area before honing in on her victim.

“Sicheng,” she cooed, batting Wooseung aside as she crouched in front of him, pulling away his hands when he tried to cover his blotchy face. “Look at you … Oh, sweetheart.”

Somehow, her palms found their way to his thighs, rubbing back and forth the way a mother would to comfort her child, but anyone could have seen that this girl’s intentions were nowhere near as innocent. The robe rode up, exposing more of his skin and he lashed out, trying to swat the unwanted touches away.

“Don’t …” he stuttered and shuffled backwards in his chair. “Please, just don’t …”

She was completely unfazed, “Come on, darling. Let’s get that face cleaned up.”

Her hands closed around his cheeks, squishing the already-reddened skin slightly and forcing his lips to puff out in a pout. If Sicheng wasn’t so terrified of getting a slap from his manager for such rudeness, he would have shoved her away from him.

“Ma’am,” Wooseung cut in from somewhere to his left. “You don’t need to touch him like that in order to do his makeup.”

The look that the stylist shot the model would have been enough to wither an oak as she hissed, “They want you back on set.”

Sicheng wanted to cry out, to beg his guardian angel to stay, but she was bound to her orders just as much as he was and with one last apologetic glance sent his way, she was gone.

“Now then,” the awful woman with the awful hands chirped, rifling through the various tools on the dressing table until she pulled out something that looked relatively similar to lip gloss. “Hold still for me.”

Her fingers fastened around his chin, overly long nails digging in, and Sicheng felt the gooey bud of the gloss wand smoothing over his lips. She was leaning too close. Unnecessarily close. He didn’t like it.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his words coming out slightly muffled due to the grip she had on his jaw. “But can you let go of me. It hurts.”

It was like he hadn’t even spoken.

“Please, Ma’am. I don’t … I don’t feel comfortable with …”

She kissed him, smothering his protests with the ferocity of her mouth latching onto his. Her fingernails were still gauging curvy dents in his chin and now her other hand was in his hair, tugging viciously at the soft strands and scratching at his scalp.

“Stop!” he tried to shout, bracing his hands against her shoulders and pushing, but she propped her knee up on the seat of the chair, right between his thighs. “Stop! Please!”

She leaned in, practically towering over him, still kissing, still fumbling, still humming with her own seductive pleasure while he continued to writhe and struggle beneath her. If only he’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours then maybe he would have had the strength to push her off.

Her knee slid higher, forcing his legs apart and now her hands were wandering lower and Sicheng was just shy of screaming for help when she finally pulled away.

He gasped for air, unaware that he’d barely been able to breathe throughout the whole … assault? Was that what it was? Could he call it that? And she planted a kiss on his forehead before returning to her makeup palette like nothing had happened.

Sicheng just sat there in the padded chair, gripping the arm rests and panting slightly, unable to process what was going on.

He hadn’t asked for that. In no way had he asked for that, but she had done it anyway. That was wrong, right? He should say something. Speak up. Report her to the management company. But what would they do? He was a full-grown man. She was a petite little woman. No one would ever believe she had been able to pin him down like that.

And, after all, he was a model. Models craved attention. Everybody knew that.

“You know,” she whispered in his ear as she ran the brush through the hair she’d messed up with her mindless display of unwanted affection. “I don’t think Yangyang’s my favourite anymore.”

\------------------

Sicheng knew his members had been calling him repeatedly over the course of the day, leaving worried voicemails and pleading messages and expressing their love and their concern for his wellbeing after his untimely disappearance that morning, but his phone had been off for a reason.

He wondered if they were angry with him. For blowing them off the previous day. For leaving without saying goodbye. For not eating the food they made for him. For not accepting the comfort they wanted to provide for him.

And it was his fear of facing yet another trauma in a day that had already been wrought with horrible things that kept him from opening the front door. Instead, he just stood there on the garden path, staring up at the building he wanted to call home and yet couldn’t bring himself to.

Maybe turning back would be better. Maybe he should hail a taxi and tell them to drive until he was as far away from this place – this life – as possible. Maybe he should just walk to the nearest bridge. Maybe he should jump.

Maybe …

“Ge?”

He blinked, unsure of when the tears had started falling or if he’d been crying all along, but at some point, the door had been thrown open and now Yukhei was standing in front of him.

“Sicheng-ge?”

Sicheng broke. He shattered like glass and collapsed like a house of cards, clamping both hands over his mouth in an attempt to stifle the sobs that suddenly burst through the dam he’d created as his knees gave out.

Yukhei caught him before he could hit the ground, but the deadened weight of a truly exhausted boy brought them both down onto the cobblestoned concrete.

“I got you …” Yukhei whispered, stroking his big brother’s hair as Sicheng clung to him like the world was ending and physical contact was all it would take to save it. “I got you. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. Nothing about this was okay.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Hendery! 
> 
> Song Recommendation:  
"Chicken Noodle Soup" by J-Hope (BTS) feat. Becky G

“Please tell us,” Kun pleaded, squeezing Sicheng’s hands as he crouched in front of his chair in the living room. “There’s obviously something going on and keeping quiet isn’t going to make it any better.”

Sicheng deliberately kept his gaze as low as possible, avoiding his leader’s eyes at all costs.

It had been nearly two hours since Yukhei had found him on the doorstep, nothing more than a snivelling, hyperventilating mess, and it had taken this long to calm him down enough to hold a stable conversation.

But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to tell them how he wasn’t as strong as them. Wasn’t as fearless or resilient. At least when the magazine came out, he could say that he’d been completely comfortable with the things they’d made him do, but if he confessed his insecurities now, it would be humiliating.

He was a grown man. A grown man and a model. And models showed off their bodies without hacking their guts up into a trashcan and breaking down in tears on the front porch.

“There’s nothing,” he whispered, ignoring Yukhei’s frustrated sigh from the other side of the room. “I’m just tired. Everything’s fine.”

“Sicheng …” Kun tried again, bringing his hand up to cup his little brother’s chin and tilt it upwards so they could look at each other. “When have we ever judged you or made you feel like you couldn’t tell us if something was bothering you?”

Never was the answer. They’d never done that. And that was why he couldn’t speak up now. He wouldn’t be able to handle the first time they ever looked at him with disgust and disappointment.

“I’m just tired,” he repeated in a monotone.

“Then you don’t have to speak,” Yukhei suddenly piped up, striding towards them and sinking to his knees beside Kun. “Let us ask the questions and you can just nod or shake your head, okay?”

No. They shouldn’t be tempting him like this. He wanted nothing more than to spill everything and leap into their arms so they could protect him from the hands that wandered into places hands shouldn’t wander and the flashes of the camera that he could still see every time he closed his eyes.

But he just _couldn’t. _He wasn’t a child. He should be able to deal with his own problems. Otherwise, what kind of example was he setting for Yangyang? That crying like a snot-faced little kid would get him whatever he wanted?

_Bite down. Hide the humiliation. Hide the discomfort. Pretend you’re okay with it because you’re a model and you should be. You signed a contract. Contracts are binding for a reason. Break it and you’re done for good, nothing more than a washed-up has been._

“Did somebody do something to you?” Yukhei asked, oblivious to Sicheng’s internal struggle in his desperation to find the cause and solution to whatever was going on behind that wall his big brother had built up around himself. “Did somebody hurt you?”

Sicheng shook his head, furiously fighting the urge to start crying again because they couldn’t know what he’d done and what he’d let be done to him. That stylist … They would never believe him.

“Are they making you do something you’re not comfortable with?”

He shook his head again because they couldn’t know. They couldn’t know. They just couldn’t. They would laugh at him, chastise him for being so immature and whiny, show him the pictures of when they’d done the exact same thing and had been fine with it.

“Do you want to finish the photoshoot?”

This time, shaking his head would be the truth and he was so close. The opportunity was right there in front of him and all he had to do was twitch his chin once to the left and once to the right and they would drop everything to get him out of this inescapable pit he seemed to have fallen in.

But then would come the questions. The interrogations. The answers. The exasperation. The raucous laughter that would follow the confessions he made. The backs that would turn on him when he admitted he’d allowed a random woman he didn’t even know the name of to climb on top of him.

He nodded.

“Then what is it, ge?” Yukhei breathed out in frustration, pushing himself up from where he’d been kneeling and running his hands over his face. “Why are you being so stubborn when you can clearly see that we’re just trying to help?”

“Yukhei …” Kun bit out, silencing the younger boy with a single look that screamed the unspoken words, _shut up. _“It’s late. We should all go to bed.”

Sicheng scrambled out of his chair so fast that he knocked his leader backwards onto the floor. Muttering a hasty apology, he stooped to help him to his feet and felt a hand close around his elbow just as he thought he was free to make a bid towards his bedroom.

“I’m here,” Kun said firmly, the sincerity in his gaze burning shame into Sicheng’s eyes. “And I always will be. No judgement, no unnecessary questions, nothing. Just say the word and I’ll kill someone if that’s what it takes to protect you from whatever you’re scared of.” 

He let go and Sicheng’s mind was screaming at him to turn around and leave before his lips let the truth slide from them like soap in wet hands, but his feet wouldn’t move.

No judgement, no unnecessary questions, nothing.

“Goodnight, ge,” he whispered, spinning on his heel and jogging up the stairs two at a time, tears burning the back of his eyes and chest throbbing with the force of the iron bands that squeezed his ribcage without mercy.

All it would have taken was one word.

\-------------------

He was forced to eat the next morning. And by ‘forced’, Kun literally would not let him walk out the door until he’d stuffed his fat face with all the fruit and oats and yoghurt his leader had accumulated in one bowl.

He tried to protest. He begged, even cried a little, pleading with him not to pile the pounds on a body he was already ashamed to live inside, but Kun refused to budge even though his little brother’s sobs clearly broke his heart.

“Pretty much every model has anorexia or bulimia,” he’d said as he gave Sicheng his last hug in the hallway. “That isn’t happening to you.”

Sicheng threw it all back up as soon as he arrived at the studio.

He never thought he’d be so thankful to be handed a pair of shorts that barely made it midway down his thigh. It was all he’d be wearing but at least it was something. He was starting to wonder what exactly he was supposed to be modelling.

Wooseung had been his anchor throughout this whole ordeal but from the moment he walked into the dressing room and didn’t see her sitting in front of the mirror like she always was, he knew she wouldn’t be in that day.

And when he inquired of her whereabouts, all he got was, “the bitch’s brat had a runny nose.”

Sicheng was thankful that she was able to be with her son while he was ill, that he wouldn’t be crying out for his mama to take the pain away, but he couldn’t help the longing he held to see her walk through the door. Just to know he wasn’t going to have to make it through this day alone.

But she didn’t.

“Alright, let’s hurry this up, people!” the director yelled over the hubbub of the staff and the machines they were setting up. “There’s so much to do and so little time so pick it up please!”

Sicheng closed his eyes, gripping the robe that concealed his mostly-bare body from view and trying to fuse the feel of it into his mind so that when he stood in front of that camera, he could at least pretend that it was still there and he wasn’t so exposed.

“Feeling nervous, sweetheart?” came the whisper in his ear and he flinched, whipping around to see the stylist blushing furiously at the reaction she’d received. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you there.”

Sicheng didn’t want to deal with this right now. He couldn’t deal with this right now.

Just looking at her made his skin crawl and his stomach twist and he even had to swallow the mouthful of bile that came slithering up his throat. He’d already vomited enough for one morning.

“I’m sorry,” he stuttered, stumbling backwards towards the pastel blue drapes he was due to be posing against. “I have to …”

“I know,” she interrupted, reaching out to take his sleeve and pull him closer despite his wordless protests. “Let me help.”

Before he even knew what she was doing, the robe was sliding off his shoulders and the natural breeze of the airy studio engulfed his body, sparking goosebumps on every square inch of exposed skin.

He brought his arms up instinctively to cover his chest, his mind spiralling into panic as he remembered the last time this woman had been that close to him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his composure if she touched him again.

“You’re so beautiful,” she muttered, tracing his jawline with the tips of her fingers and trailing a path down his throat towards his chest. “I can’t believe you’re so underrated.”

“I have to go!” Sicheng gasped, tripping on a wire and almost faceplanting into the ground in his desperation to get away from her. As far away as possible.

Shoulders heaving, heart rate thudding, eyes already beginning to water, he staggered in front of the camera and tried his damn hardest to listen to what the director was yelling at him even though he felt like he was drowning in nothing but air.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you, kid?”

The words cut through the foggy haze in his mind like a whip crack and he tried to respond, tried to school his facial expression into something relatively model-like but he was shaking too badly to even stand straight, the first few tears dribbling over his cheeks.

He couldn’t even remember why he was crying.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he heard from somewhere to his left, the curse feeling like a gunshot to his gut. “Somebody get this fucking piece of shit out of here and smack some sense into him!”

The hand that closed around the back of his neck was painfully tight, tugging on the whispery strands of hair sprouting on his nape, and he let out a strangled sob of surprise as he was dragged sideways like a dog who’d chewed its master’s shoes.

He briefly identified his surroundings as one of the dressing rooms before a flat palm connected with his cheek and his entire left side seemed to burst into flames.

Too unsteady to begin with, he staggered and would have fallen to his knees if it weren’t for the fingers clenched around his upper arm.

“Pull yourself together!” his manager snarled at him, flecks of spittle flying off the tip of his tongue to splash his victim in the face. “You’re embarrassing yourself and disgracing the entire company! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Another slap to the face and a brutal shake had him choking on his own saliva, lights popping in front of his eyes as his brain was rattled around in his skull.

He still couldn’t see the face of his assailant with how blurred his vision was but he knew that right in front of him was a set jaw and eyes narrowed with fury.

“I’m sorry …” he babbled pathetically, trying to bring his hands up to protect himself but only receiving a third smack for his troubles. “I’m so … sorry …”

The grip on his arms was released and he crumpled to his knees, nothing more than a semi-naked muddle of lanky limbs, still sobbing and muttering various apologies that he could no longer hear over the sound of rushing in his ears.

“Should have chosen Yukhei …” came the grunt from above. “Don’t know why I wasted my time on you.”

The door opened and Sicheng didn’t know why but, for the briefest of moments, he thought somebody was here to rescue him. To save him. To protect him from further pain and humiliation.

He was wrong.

“Excuse me, sir?” The stylist. It was the stylist. “I was sent to help Sicheng touch up his makeup.”

“You can try,” his manager scoffed bitterly, giving the trembling boy a swift kick to the knee. “But this one’s a lost cause, if you ask me.”

A lost cause. Didn’t that just sum it all up? A lost cause. Why had he ever fooled himself into believing he was actually worth something? A pretty body and a decent face. His only redeeming features. And now the world knew it, too.

“Oh, sweetheart …”

He didn’t care for her ‘sweethearts’ and her gentle touches that couldn’t have been further from innocent.

He wanted to be gone from this life. He wanted to be forgotten. No one would know his face, no one would remember his name. He would just be one more pebble on the beach.

“Get off me …” he whimpered, trying to use the heels of his feet to push himself backwards when he felt the first brush of fingertips against his bare chest. “Please … Get off me … I don’t … Please …”

His back met the wall and he had nowhere else to go. Nowhere to run to as she leaned in closer until he could feel her breath against his face.

“You just need to relax a little,” she whispered, fending off his attempts to push her away as her hands outlined the creases of his abdominal muscles. “I can help you with that.”

Sicheng opened his mouth, another desperate plea already forming on the tip of his tongue, but he never got the chance to utter it because, without warning, the weight on top of him was gone and the breath on his skin vanished and the hands weren’t there anymore.

He opened his eyes, blinking through the tears, and looked up to see the very last thing he’d expected to see.

The stylist was standing a few feet away, her expression twisted into one of apprehension as she stared up into the face of the person who held her wrist in a vice so tight it would probably leave bruises the following morning.

“I don’t hit girls,” Hendery growled, his voice so low and foreign that Sicheng wouldn’t have recognised him if he couldn’t see the apoplectic rage in his best friend’s face. “But if you don’t disappear in the next five seconds, I’m going to have to make an exception.” 

Sicheng had never seen anybody move as fast as that woman did, practically tripping over her own feet in order to get as far as possible from that glare so hateful it would be enough to wither an oak tree. 

"Get up," Hendery ordered, but his voice was so much softer than it had been just a few seconds ago. "Come on, ge. Get up."

Arms wrapped around Sicheng's waist and he would have shied away from the touch, begged for release, if it wasn't Hendery's cologne that he could smell on the body that lifted him to his feet as easily as if he weighed nothing.

Thumbs brushed his cheeks, gently swatting aside the tears and a jacket was draped around his shoulders.

"I'm taking you home."


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last hurrah! Here we go ...
> 
> Song Recommendation:  
"No Manners" by SuperM
> 
> Drama Recommendation:  
"Because It's My First Time"

Hendery had known something was wrong since Sicheng’s first day. Everyone else had known too, for sure, but Hendery had _known. _Like some psychic sense inside of him could tell that his ge’s breakdowns weren’t just due to stress or exhaustion but were really something much more sinister.

He’d heard Kun telling Ten that they needed to make some kind of move. An intervention or just anything that would finally get Sicheng to stop torturing himself and tell them what was going on with him, but he hadn’t been able to wait that long.

And he had never been so thankful for his impatience.

Up until the moment he’d walked through the doors and seen Sicheng standing in front of the camera, practically naked, crying and trembling under the watchful eye of dozens of people while the director screamed insults at him until their manager eventually manhandled him out of the studio, Hendery hadn’t known the meaning of the word ‘anger’.

He hadn’t known what it felt like to actually want to murder. To maim and mutilate. To tie somebody down and make them watch as he ripped their skin from their bones, strip by strip. He hadn’t known he was capable of such fury.

But when he’d finally gotten some useless PA to tell him where the dressing rooms were and ploughed through the door to see his big brother cowering on the floor, his cheek burning red in the wake of a handprint, and a girl practically climbing on top of him as he begged for mercy, Hendery didn’t just want to murder.

He wanted to burn. Burn until there was nothing left. Nothing but melted skin dripping from charred bones.

“Hey!” the girl – he didn’t know her name and nor did he want to find out – yelped as he seized her wrist and tugged her away from Sicheng. “What are you doing?”

He could see the flash of recognition in her eyes. She clearly knew who he was but he didn’t care about that. She could call all the reporters she wanted, she could post whatever she liked on social media, she could rip his reputation to shreds as long as she never touched his brother again.

“I don’t hit girls,” he growled, his fingers digging into her arm as he desperately tried to remember what his mother and father had always raised him on: chivalry. “But if you don’t disappear in the next five seconds, I’m going to have to make an exception.”

He maintained the strength in his posture, the intimidation he hadn’t realised he possessed, until she was out of the room and only then did he allow himself to soften and drop to his knees, reaching out for Sicheng’s shivering body. He could practically feel his heart breaking.

“Get up,” he whispered, taking Sicheng’s forearms and gently pulling upwards. “Come on, ge.”

But Sicheng looked like he was frozen, tear tracks fused into his face and eyes swollen and scarlet. His left cheek was already starting to turn from red to purple as the shape of fingers imprinted itself against his skin.

“Get up,” Hendery repeated as he changed tactics, leaning forwards and looping his arms around Sicheng’s waist before bracing himself and lifting.

Sicheng was so much lighter than he used to be.

Hendery took his ge’s face in his hands and tried to absorb the tears with the pads of his thumbs, unable to watch his best friend cry anymore, but fresh pearls leaked from his eyelids no matter how many he tried to wipe away.

“I’m taking you home.”

It was the best assurance he could give: a promise that he would get Sicheng as far away from this place and these people as humanly possible so he could ensure that nobody ever told him to take off his clothes and forced themselves upon him ever again.

Sicheng didn’t speak as Hendery shrugged off his jacket and draped it around his shoulders, leaving his side for the briefest of moments while he searched for his clothes. He found the plastic bag stuffed beneath a chair and coaxed his friend into changing so they could finally leave this hell hole.

And never come back.

\------------------

They must have given Kun quite a shock when they stumbled over the threshold, Sicheng still quivering like a leaf even though his tears seemed to have finally dried up. He didn’t even look like he could walk on his own, Hendery clutching his arm for support as he tripped out of his shoes.

“What …” their leader stuttered, emerging from the living room with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the sight of Sicheng back so soon. “Hend … What?”

“Ge?” Hendery murmured, ignoring Kun as he rested a hand against Sicheng’s back. “What do you want to do right now?”

He couldn’t imagine what he must be feeling. The shame, the embarrassment, the trauma, the fear of what his manager would say when he found out he’d left his post. Hendery had promised him that he’d be protected as long as they were around but his greatest fear was that he wouldn’t be able to keep to it.

“Shower,” Sicheng rasped, his voice sounding like fingernails on sandpaper and Hendery watched with the heaviest of hearts as his big brother staggered up the stairs, head hung low and shoulders hunched.

“Hendery,” Kun hissed, grabbing hold of the boy’s elbow and tugging him into the living room. “What … What the hell? What happened?”

Yangyang, Yukhei and Xiaojun were already on the couches, a movie paused on the television screen in front of them and eyes wide as they watched the exchange happening between leader and subordinate.

“I had a bad feeling,” Hendery defended, pulling his arm from Kun’s grip. “Something wasn’t right. He was scared and he was hurting and I couldn’t watch it happen anymore.”

He could see the concern in Kun’s eyes and he knew his ge must be worried about what Hendery had done and whether it would damage their careers or their reputation with the modelling agency.

“So …” Yangyang prompted from the couch, shuffling anxiously on the cushions as he awaited an answer. “What was going on?”

Hendery didn’t realise his hands were shaking until Kun took hold of them and pulled him to an armchair before his knees gave out from the rage that suddenly encased his body at the mere thought of remembering what Sicheng had gone through.

“They made him strip,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “They had him practically naked as they took pictures of him and he … he was fucking crying and they just … yelled at him. And when I found him later, this girl … I think she was a stylist or something … She was just on top of him and he was begging her to stop and she … she didn’t.”

There was silence, probably as the others processed the grotesque information, before Yukhei let out a dangerously quiet and terrifyingly sinister, “I’ll kill them.”

“Hendery,” Kun pushed, crouching in front of Hendery and squeezing his hands very tightly. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Hendery muttered bitterly, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I wish I had but I didn’t. I just grabbed him and got out of there.”

The door opened before anybody else could say anything and Ten slipped into the room with his brow furrowed and his eyes pulled into narrowed slits.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice low. “Why is Sicheng sobbing in the shower?”

Nobody answered him. Nobody knew what to say. Nobody knew what they were supposed to do or how they were supposed to react. Did Sicheng need them to call the police? To make the decisions for him? Or did he need them to give him time?

“I’m serious,” Yukhei growled, pushing himself up off the couch and even starting towards the door, fists balled at his sides. “I’ll fucking kill them.”

“Sit down!” Kun ordered, shoving the kid backwards. “You really think that’s going to help right now?”

“Then what do you want to do?”

Silence. The longest, most painful silence Hendery had ever heard.

“I don’t know.”

\-------------------

Sicheng was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the opposite wall and clutching his dressing gown around him, when Kun knocked on the door and cracked it open. His leader looked tired, like he’d even been crying, and Sicheng couldn’t help but feel responsible for his ge’s pain.

“Can I come in?”

He nodded wordlessly and Kun stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. For a few seconds, he just loitered there as though he wasn’t sure which move was the right one to make, before eventually lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

But he kept the distance between them and Sicheng wasn’t sure whether he was thankful for that or not. His mind had been a mess of emotions right up until the moment it just decided to stop working.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” Kun started, staring at his own hands in his lap. “If I’d had any idea what was happening to you, I would have put a stop to it instantly. I … I’m sorry you had to go through that alone.”

“Not your fault,” Sicheng mumbled back without looking up from the piece of wall he’d been inspecting for the last however many hours. “It’s mine.”

“It’s not,” Kun snapped, so harshly that Sicheng flinched, and the leader apologised at once. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Si. I just … It’s not your fault, okay? None of that – _none of that – _was your fault. They … They made you do those things, Si. It wasn’t your choice.”

Sicheng knew he was right. He hadn’t asked for that kind of treatment. He hadn’t wanted it and he hadn’t deserved it either. That wasn’t what he blamed himself for.

It _had _been his choice not to say anything, to keep going back, to keep quiet, to let it happen. In that respect, everything he’d endured over the past few days had been entirely his fault. 

But he didn’t say that. They would lock him up, send him to a shrink, pump him full of compliments he neither wanted nor appreciated. They would think he was one of those abuse victims and they would treat him like one, too. He wouldn’t be able to stand it.

“I …” Kun began again. “I wanted to ask you what you want to do.”

Sicheng looked up at him for the first time, knowing he was displaying the blossoming bruise plastered across his cheek but too shocked to care. He wasn’t sure what Kun was expecting of him but he didn’t want to _do _anything.

He wanted to forget it happened. All of it. Every last second. He wanted to erase it from existence and never think of it again.

“I mean,” Kun clarified when Sicheng continued to blink at him. “I will support you whatever you decide to do. Whether you want to press charges or report that girl for what she did or …”

“Press charges?” Sicheng whispered, his heart leaping into his throat and his eyes widening in fear. “I … Ge, I can’t. They’ll … They’ll win. They’ll hide it and they’ll tell everyone I was lying and I … I can’t … They’ll destroy me … I can’t, ge, I can’t!”

“Okay,” Kun soothed, moving forwards at the first sign of a panic attack and taking Sicheng against his chest in the kind of embrace only a leader could give. “Okay. I’m sorry. It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don't want to.”

Sicheng just nodded dumbly, bringing his hands up to clutch at the back of Kun’s shirt as he desperately tried to regulate his breathing into a steady pattern once more.

His chest was burning and his head was spinning and he just wanted to go to sleep forever because the thought of having to talk about any of … _that _in front of police officers and then lawyers and then eventually the press was just too terrible to imagine.

And then he thought of something else. Something that wasn’t him.

He thought of Wooseung. Wooseung and her little boy. Wooseung and the life she had lived since she was twenty-years-old, forced to slave away beneath a contract that wanted nothing more than her body and would throw her away the second she grew too old or too “ugly” to be a model anymore.

She would be cast out, left with nothing. They barely paid her as it was and she had a son to think about. A little boy who would be starting school soon. A school where he’d need books and stationary and a uniform and all the other things that were ridiculously overpriced these days.

Sicheng would be okay. He had his family. He had money. She didn’t.

“Ge …” he whispered and Kun drew away from the hug to take his hands, nodding to show that he was listening. “There’s a girl … Her name’s Wooseung.”

“She’s the one who assaulted you?”

“No!” Sicheng gasped, shaking his head frantically. “No, no, no. She … She’s a model, too. She has a little boy. His name’s Tianyu. She … She needs to get out of there, ge. They’re ripping her apart. She can barely afford to feed him.”

Kun hummed in understanding, his eyebrows knotting together in the centre of his forehead in the classic way they always did when he was both angry and sad at the same time, “So what are you suggesting?”

“I want … to press charges,” Sicheng choked out, closing his eyes in a pathetic attempt to hide from the terror that engulfed him. “For her. And for Tianyu. I want to press charges.”

He waited for the response and, even though he knew that this was something he needed to do, that this was the right thing to do, there was some part of him that wanted Kun to say he couldn’t. But what he got instead was much better.

He got another hug.

“You’re amazing,” Kun murmured in his ear, squeezing so tightly that Sicheng thought he might burst. But it was a good kind of tight. A safe kind of tight. “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

Sicheng didn’t know when but, somehow, he’d started crying. Again. Kun sat back, dabbing at his little brother’s eyes with his hoodie sleeve and rubbing a comforting hand against his thigh.

“You’re not alone,” he vowed, his own voice cracking with poorly-concealed emotion. “We are right behind you all the way. Those people abused you and they’ve abused this girl and even the biggest idiot could see that. You will win this, Si.”

Maybe. Hopefully.

“You’ll see,” Kun pushed on, the first of his own tears sliding free. “You’ll see that you’re so much more than what those people took you for, Sicheng. So, so much more.”

So much more.

Sicheng liked the sound of that.

So much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is not a great ending but I really lost faith in this story. I felt like it wasn't good enough from the start but I kept going because I'd already started and I just … It wasn't working for me. I've given it the best conclusion that I could so as not to leave it hanging but please forgive me for that.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout to Juno! I love you, baby!
> 
> Comments and kudos really help with my motivation and confidence so if you have a spare minute, let me know what you think! Have a good day :)


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